


Scribbles and Such

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Canon, Banter, Character Study, Crimes & Criminals, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Domestic, Drama, Drugs, Family, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stories centering around the quiet moments in Holmes and Watson's lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Dear Readers,

For many years now I have recorded the exploits of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes and for those of you who have done me the great honor of reading these narratives, I would venture to guess that you have an image of our lives as perpetually adventurous. In many respects you would be correct, and for that I commend you. We do find ourselves bouncing from one case to another, often for months at a time, and during these periods one can assume that if we are not actively tracking a culprit we are scouring his haunts for clues, if not that we are running pelt melt alongside our companions at Scotland Yard, and if none of these things prove accurate than we are most likely being hunted ourselves.

It is indeed an adventurous life and it is one I find myself privileged to lead.

However, what you readers do not see are those quite moments when nothing of consequence has occurred. I have not shown you these moments for the simple reason that I believe you would find them quite boring. I have always assumed that when one picks up a fictitious journal it is with the expectation that he or she will find something exciting and perhaps even unique within its pages. You do not buy my work to read about the slow weeks where no cases presented themselves or the lazy Sunday mornings when yours truly can hardly be encouraged to move farther than the breakfast table.

And yet, over these many years I have discovered something surprising and endlessly fascinating: those admirers of my work, whom I have had the pleasure of speaking with, are always clamoring for details about our social lives. One would think (and indeed, I did for the longest time) that you readers would wish to know more about the cases. The thrilling chases, the dastardly villains – these seem much more entertaining to my mind than the mundane workings of everyday existence. And yet, I find myself bombarded with the most puzzling questions: 'How does Holmes take his tea?' 'What is his middle name?' 'Does he truly keep his tobacco in a Persian slipper?' And, to my endless surprise and pleasure, those of the general public seem just as interested in me. Why you good people of London would wish to burden yourselves with my daily routine when you have the eccentric Sherlock Holmes to look to I shall never understand, and yet I cannot tell you how many times I have been asked to clarify where exactly I received my war wound…

Nevertheless, it has thus come to my attention that my readers would care to be given a more detailed look into our daily lives. However, I'm afraid that understanding what it is you want doesn't make it any easier to provide you with it. What would you have me say? That Holmes and I are both sinfully lazy men and spend most of our off days with music and books respectfully? That he prefers his toast slightly burnt and that I will only take my tea at a near scalding temperature? Or perhaps you merely wish for more anecdotes, the strange and often whimsical tales us men love to share with one another?

Very well then. I have lived a happy life of servitude, both to you my readers and to Sherlock Holmes, and I find myself more than willing to continue that service.

If it is anecdotes you desire then it is anecdotes you shall receive. Within these pages I hope to compile those scenes that are forever etched in my memory, not because they are truly 'important' in any defined sense of the word, but simply because they are cherished by one John H. Watson. They are those little moments that have made my life worth living.

I do hope you find some satisfaction in these scribbles. I, after all, have had great fun writing them. And, should fate ever design that we should meet one day on some lovely afternoon, I would be honored to sit and discuss these moments with you, perhaps over a hot cup of tea.

Until then, do enjoy-

John H. Watson


	2. Soothing What Is Savage

It was, what I believe my fellow writers would term, a 'dark and stormy night.' The weather, to be quite blunt, was horrendous. For a week straight London had been bombarded with nothing but wind, rain, and the occasional nightly coating of ice. The result, I am sorry to say, was that two men each got exactly what they were not looking for. I, for example, began receiving near double my number of patients, for the simple reason that treacherous weather dictates an increase in accidents - many of them quite serious. Thus I had been spending a great deal more time running to and from my practice, with my services being called for at every conceivable hour.

Holmes, on the other hand, suffered from a lack of business. It seemed that even the most hardened of criminals weren't willing to brave this weather; prestige among colleagues and a bit of monetary gain simply weren't worth offering up life and limb to the elements. I have always found such truths to be fascinating: a man considers the gallows to be a necessary risk when going about his nefarious deeds, and yet he does not come to the same conclusion when the execution is dished out, not by the hands of mortals, but through the wrath of nature. It is the most confounding thing. And yet, be you good or evil, gentleman or ruffian, a touch of bad weather will make meek men of us all. It must be something about the human spirit, for I simply cannot explain it any other way. When storms roll in equality blankets London in the form of hot cups of tea and the firm decision to stay indoors at all costs.

However, I doubt these observations are interesting to anyone other than myself. They certainly wouldn't interest Holmes who viewed this lull in criminal activity as a crime in and of itself. There had been few difficult cases these past six months – most of them Holmes was able to wrap up from the comfort of his armchair – and thus the arrival of a complete standstill, when he needed activity the most, was… distressing, to say the least.

It was on one of these dreary, frustrating nights that I returned to find my friend in a fit of manic activity. With nothing to occupy his mind and a stubbornness against indulging his body, I am sorry to say that Holmes had slept little – if at all – that past week. Each night I came home to find his thoughts more frazzled and his physical frame similarly declining. Two nights past he had taken to shooting the walls again, this time adorning one with "A.P" for, he informed me, "amor patriae": "love of one's country." Let it never be said that my friend is not patriotic. I, however, was merely relieved that the recent thunder had covered any… ahem, specific noises from the neighbors.

Needless to say, I approached our dear Baker Street with just a bit of trepidation. I am not Sherlock Holmes - I am not skilled in the science of deduction - but I am however, trained to trust my instincts. They did not fail me this time, for no sooner had I entered our humble abode than a flowerpot shattered at my feet.

"Ha!" Holmes stood at the top of the stairs, glaring triumphantly down at both me and Mrs. Hudson's poorly treated poinsettia. I admit that even years after my service my nerves were not quite what they once were, and thus my own reaction included a few more colorful words than 'ha.'

"Holmes!" I snapped, avoiding bits of pottery and dirt. "What is the meaning of this? Can I not enter my own home in peace?" He was balanced on the top step, left hand firmly grasping the railing. He leaned so far over that for a moment I feared I would have him at my feet as well.

"It is a simply matter of air Watson. Air. We give it so little notice and yet it holds such power! Consider – a flowerpot and a feather are dropped from the same height at the same time and yet the pot falls at a far greater speed than the feather. Correct?"

"Yes…" I looked around and sure enough there were tiny feathers littering the floor. "Holmes, where did these come from?"

"Air resistance." He continued. "The feather encounters air resistance while the pot, less so. Can you imagine if one could bypass this obstacle of nature? Perhaps even use it to our advantage? Imagine Watson, keeping objects in the air as lightly as birds despite that fact that they carry thousands of times their weight!"

"I believe," I murmured "that a pair of brothers is experimenting with just such principals. At least, that is the rumor. But really Holmes, must you make such a mess?" Making use of the pause in our conversation I maneuvered myself around the shattered remains, the thousands of feathers, and peered up at Holmes. I assure you dear reader, it would not take a physician's eye to spot how tired my friend was. He still leaned forward over the steps but the arm holding him shook with exertion. There was a smudge of what looked to be charcoal on his cheek, further highlighting the bags under his eyes, and as he had not changed out of his dressing gown in many days I could see his bare feet; toes curling with exhausted energy.

I had only been gone the day in pursuit of helping my patients, and yet in that time he seemed to have deteriorated greatly.

"Have you not slept at all?" I whispered

"I see no reason to indulge myself in such needless activities when there is not even anything of interest to be well rested for." He snapped, turning shakily and stumbling back into our living room.

I did not comment on how sleep could hardly be termed 'needless' or how he steadfastly refused to rest while on a case either. Instead, I took more time than I cared to admit lowering myself to the floor (hard days and bad weather did nothing to help my old wound) and carefully gathered the remains of the pot for Mrs. Hudson to dispose of in the morning. Looking around me I decided to forego cleaning the feathers, for now at least. Where Holmes procured them was beyond me (though truthfully, I did not want to know.) Then, slowly climbing the stairs, I mentally catalogued ways to help my friend. For I would help him – this bout of destructive behavior could not continue much longer.

When I'd finally hauled myself up the seventeen steps I was dismayed to find our rooms in a state of complete disarray. Papers covered the floor (with many, too near the grate, beginning to catch fire), my journals had been taken from their shelves and tossed uncaringly about, chemicals were spilled across not only Holmes's own table but our shared breakfast table as well, and I quickly realized that the cold draft I'd waltzed into came from a sizable crack in our window.

"Holmes!" I ran for the papers that were seconds away from being fully ablaze. Seeing that they were beyond help I unceremoniously dumped them atop the nearest chemical spill, hoping to soak it up a bit. Realizing that this too was a futile endeavor I did a smart about-face in my flatmate's direction. All thoughts of helping this man flew from my mind.

"Holmes." I seemed incapable of doing anything other than repeating his name, albeit in what I hoped was a reprimanding manner. "Holmes, how did you manage to destroy our rooms so spectacularly - in under six hours?"

I was rewarded with him glancing my way but otherwise he didn't move. Well, I shouldn't mislead you. He did move, for his hands beat a constant rhythm across the armrests and his toes continued to curl, but he did not design to unwrap himself from the chair's depths. He also refused to say another word, merely glaring at me as if the lack of crime, lack of sleep, and his own destructive habits were somehow my fault.

"I understand that you have had a hard time of it lately but at the very least have some respect for our possessions! My possessions! I do not care to have my writings tossed upon the floor, nor to I wish to return to a room that's the same temperature as the night air!" I could feel myself venting my frustration, not only at Holmes but at the weather this past week, my increased workload, everything. Some part of me hoped that he would respond so that I might further lash out, but he just looked away, raising his chin in a thoroughly haughty manner.

"Very well." I said. "If you insist on sulking like a child then I shall treat you as one." With that I crossed the room – making sure he saw me treading heavily upon his papers – and shed my coat, folding it carefully against the window in the hopes that it might hold back the cold. I then moved towards our bookshelf, knocking aside his trinkets as I passed, and picked up a journal at random. I settled myself in the chair across from his and proceeded to ignore him as I would a disobedient toddler.

As you can imagine however, it did not take long for my temper to cool. Granted, my anger did remain longer than I would have originally bet on and that is entirely because Holmes decided that the best revenge was to snatch up his violin, toss it across his knees, and scrape it without stopping to see which notes might be compatible and which should stay far away from one another.

But one does not live with Sherlock Holmes for as long as I have without acquiring the talent of ignoring all manner of noises. Before too long I had tuned out his lack of tunes and was thinking about my own childish reaction to his tantrum. Admittedly, my own day had been stressful and Holmes' inability to provide a relaxing environment to return home to excused my actions somewhat… but not by much.

I admitted freely to Holmes when we first met that my temper could be fearsome, though I generally reserve it for those who have wronged me or some acquaintance of mine. Holmes had certainly done neither and I, as his friend and closest confidant, should certainly have more patience with him. I of all people knew how this lack of crime affected him.

By the time the clock struck the quarter hour I was feeling most contrite. With a sigh I put aside my journal and bent to retrieve some of the papers I had previously abused.

"I apologize Holmes." I said as simply as possible. "The day's exertions and weather have not left me in the best of moods."

"Well… you are not the only one Doctor." Save for the times his actions had led to some life threatening injury, that was the closest to an apology as I would ever receive. However, he more than made up for it by putting aside his violin – a gesture in and of itself.

I nodded, acknowledging this but he merely waved me away from the papers still littering the floor.

"Leave them Watson, leave them. It is not as if they are anything of importance, merely this past week's agony columns. I have scoured them in the hopes that something would present itself. Ha!" He scoffed, scowling at the world in general. "Do you know how much crime this great city of ours has hosted lately?"

"Very little I would imagine. Or, based on your melancholy, no crimes have been committed that you would deem interesting."

"Once again you have been presented with all the evidence needed – more so even! – and yet you have come to the wrong conclusion!"

I paused in reclaiming my seat, startled by his outburst.

"Oh-!" He immediately seemed to realize that he was once again taking the unfortunate circumstances out on me, for he winced and fluttered his hands wildly, as if to wave his words out of the room.

"What I mean to say dear Watson is that there is no crime. Absolutely none! At least, none that our dear publicists are reporting. Do you realize – oh of course you don't – but do you realize that people have actually been helping one another? Dashing young men supporting the elderly through this treacherous weather. Wealthy nobles donating dry clothes to the Street Arabs. It is absurd! There is more sentiment permeating the air than during the holiday season and I cannot take it any longer!"

With that he threw himself backwards into the chair and snatched up his clay pipe. It did not take a consulting detective to deduce that he meant to drown his frustration in tobacco.

"What of your experiment?" I asked, hoping to head off this indulgence. Besides, I did wonder… "Where did you get all those feathers?"

But he merely sighed, as if he knew my reasons for asking and did not approve – and he probably did.

"Read your journal Watson. I will smoke."

"You should sleep." I insisted

"I cannot."

"You can try."

"I wish to think."

"Holmes, you should really-"

"Leave me be!"

With an angry gesture he turned into the armchair, ignoring me completely. Perhaps, even in such an uncomfortable position, he might find sleep… but no. The only part of him that did move was his hand, continually taking the pipe to and from his mouth.

I knew from experience that there was nothing more to be done. He did not desire conversation and I had no more thoughts on how to help him. Even my childish, frustrated anger had not amused him as it so often did. There was nothing to do but what I have always done when in doubt: follow my commander's orders.

I retrieved my journal and settled in to read.

And yet, less than an hour later I found myself skimming an article that, upon reflection, I thought might be of some use. The journal I had snatched up was, as you can imagine, of a medical nature and this particular issue dealt in part with the continued mental and physical health of infants. The article that had caught my attention was by one Dr. Evelin entitled, "The Relative Efficacy of Continued Motion in the Soothing of Neonates." To summarize, for I am sure you have no desire to indulge in such bland writings, Dr. Evenlin suggested that a repetitive, gentle motion is paramount in allowing young children to drift off to sleep. Why such a thing occurs, I will not bore you with, but upon reading his thesis it occurred to me that I too had noticed such behavior. Young mothers are often seen rocking their children in their arms, or perhaps purchasing a cradle to do such work for them. Dr. Evenlin also made mention – and this is what truly caught my eye – of how this desire for soothing motion does not lessen with age. It is, according to him, a continued pleasure of the human condition. I could not help but think of old Mrs. Krass, a widow of seventy who frequents my clinic, and how much of her later years she has spent in the arms of her favorite rocking chair.

And, on the heels of this thought, I remembered the countless times Holmes and I had boarded trains together. Heading towards a case, Holmes is a mass of contained energy, ready to set himself in motion at the slightest provocation. On the way back however… well, let us say that more than once I have looked up from an engrossing book to find my friend curled in on himself, the motion of the train having put him straight to sleep.

I wondered if the roll of a cab was similar enough to that of a train.

"Come Holmes!"

Shocked by my sudden cry he started, nearly throwing his pipe upon the fire. Recovering himself however, he fixed me with another, terrible glare.

"Do leave me be Watson." He snapped. "I am not in an amiable enough state to humor you!"

"You need not humor me." I replied, reaching for my boots. "Merely follow me."

"Follow you! My dear fellow, look at what surrounds us!" He jabbed his pipe at the window where, outside, the wind still howled and the sky poured down torrents of icy slush. "You wish to go out in this? At this time of night? With a man who in no way desires your company?" He snorted indelicately. "You are far more dim witted than I ever imagined."

Knowing it was merely a lack of sleep speaking, I endeavored to smile at him. Picking up my coat I threw him a statement that, even at his most melancholy, he could not ignore.

"I would follow you out in such weather. At such a time. In such company… would you not do the same for me?"

I timed my movements perfectly so that my back faced him as I concluded speaking, giving the seconds he needed to recover. I knew from past experiences – however seldom they were - what would be painted upon his features. What he would not want me to see: shock, tempered into confusion, settling on guilty resignation. Not the expressions of a machine.

"And where, exactly, would you have me go Doctor?" He growled, already standing and retrieving his own coat. He did not change out of his dressing gown and I did not make mention of it. After all, if things went according to plan, better that he have it on.

"You shall see my friend! I have spent much of my life following you without knowledge of our motives or destination. Do you not think it time you did the same?" And with that I was bounding down the steps, my previous lethargy forgotten in the face of finally helping Holmes.

It did take some time to find a cab however – and no wonder, given what the weather was like. During our brief interval Holmes, after following me down the steps, proceeded to lean against the wall and cocoon himself in his coat. Every few moments I heard some sort of complaint or expletive – often directed at me – and it was those foul additions to his vocabulary that told me just how tired he was. I did hope that this little endeavor of mine would be a success. If Holmes did not sleep soon his body would eventually overpower his mind – something he always hopped to avoid. Thus, it was with the energy of the desperate that I finally bundled him into a waiting cab.

I will, however, admit to a bit of subterfuge on my part. It is not that I didn't wish for Holmes to be out of the elements as soon as possible – he was already far too pale - but I also hoped to have a private word with the cabbie. Turning from the vehicle, on the off chance that Holmes designed to poke his head out and read my lips, I motioned the driver down towards me.

"Oy gov'." He growled, "Planin' on givin' me an address? I'd sure as like to be moven' on, what with this weather an' all. Or do you lot like being en the rain? You a fish-fish-fishy?" He pulled in his lips, making an exaggerated sucking noise and laughed heartily.

"No doubt your day as been an unpleasant one." I said as steadily as I could. "I am so glad that you've retained your sense of humor. However, I have no address for you," Pulling out a substantial bit of money I slipped it within the folds of his coat. "Instead, I merely wish for you to drive about. Nowhere in particular, but do not go in circles mind. Pick a far off location and stick to it. If we arrive, choose another. I assume you can do such a thing?"

He did not glace at the money, but no doubt he could feel the weight of it in his palm. "Aye gov'. I can do ta't."

"Good man." Nodding, I clamored in beside Holmes. He raised one eyebrow at my soaked appearance but quickly returned his attention to the window. Beneath us, the cab began to roll.

Realizing that I might as well be comfortable, I began removing my jacket and waistcoat.

"A long journey then?" Holmes murmured.

"Yes."

"We're heading west."

"Indeed."

"You are aware that I will know where we are heading long before we reach the destination."

"Oh, of that I have no doubt."

His gaze snapped towards mine and some of his previous irritability resurfaced. "If this location is so trivial then why do you not simply tell me where we are going?"

I shrugged. When attempting to play Sherlock Holmes, it is best to give as little information as possible. It was also fascinating to witness how he reacted to information being withheld from him. Of course, he'd had to deal with much the same from numerous clients and villains, but never from me. No doubt he'd never expected to. Despite the slight seriousness of my mission, I shrugged again and smiled.

He, in turn, made a sound that crossed between a laugh and a growl and, following the pattern of the night, proceeded to ignore me.

Closing my eyes, I settled in to wait.

For two hours we sat and no words passed between us. The sound of the rain blocked out all other noise and became its own kind of silence. True to his word, the driver continued on without stop. Every once in a while there was a sharp turn as he changed direction, but other than that the soothing motion of the cab never ceased.

Tentatively, I opened one eye and peeked at Holmes.

If he had been wrapped in his coat before he was practically buried in it now. Slumped far in his seat, with his legs drawn to his chest, my friend, lacking a pillow, had settled his forehead upon his knees. For a moment I was sure he'd somehow found rest in that uncomfortable position – but no. Upon closer inspection he was still barely awake; body just tense enough to follow the motions of the cab.

"There is no destination, is there Watson?" He murmured.

"No. Which you would have realized sooner, were you not so in need of sleep."

Slowly, that head nodded.

I sighed. There are many things that can be said about me – I am a solider, a writer, a detective's Boswell – however, I have never been a planner. I am the man who carries out the orders, not makes them. And here was the flaw that came of me trying to maneuver and manipulate – Holmes may have found the relaxation he needed to obtain sleep, but it was in a less than desirable location. There was no bed, no blankets… nothing that would ease him into Morpheus' hold. If he could only find a more comfortable position…

Here, dear reader, I place a bit of my trust in your hands. There are many who would frown upon what I did next. Men – especially men of my station – are expected to keep a certain distance from their fellows. We shake hands, sometimes touch one another's shoulder, but we do not kiss and hug as the ladies do. It is 'improper.' It is 'wrong,' to physically express such sentimentality.

I find it astounding that in my previous works I have alluded to so many nefarious deeds without consequence. I can tell you that I have broken into men's homes, blackmailed them, even killed them… and you do not bat an eye.

However, many may cringe when I say that, desperate to give him some relief, I carefully – yet decisively – gathered Holmes into my arms.

There. I have said it. I can kill a man but I cannot comfort one. Does that seem reasonable to you?

Whatever you may think of it reader, the facts stand. I provided him with a pillow, and I provided him with a blanket. Holmes, far from being uncomfortable with my attentions, seemed to accept them with his unique, silent outlook. It could not have been more than five minutes after we were settled that he finally, blessedly, drifted off to sleep.

I only moved once during the rest of the night. Just once to pay the cabbie another extraordinary amount to not only continue driving, but to stay on past his shift. Of course, the monetary loss was little compared to the relief of seeing my friend finally gain some rest.

And, of course, there were other, minor consequences. My leg, already stiff from the terrible weather, had seized up under the pressing weight of a full-grown man. When we finally arrived back at Baker Street in the morning, Mrs. Hudson – already in a flurry after finding her poinsettia smashed – had to help both Holmes and me through the front door. I would be very surprised if my friend had any memories of that morning. He walked as if drugged, allowing us to lead him towards his bed where his body was able to complete what I'd helped to begin. After a dodging night of sleeping on top of his flatmate, Holmes was able to slip into a deep, healthier slumber.

With him settled – having I hoped, pleasant dreams – I too went off to bed.

Perhaps reader, you are imagining that later there was some grand gesture on his part, to thank me for my support and timely idea. Perhaps you believe that we both slept the day away peacefully and awoke refreshed, eager for one another's company. If you have read any of my previous works you should be able to deduce that this was not the case. Dramatic he may be, but 'thank you's are not Holmes' forte. As for us both being well rested… he eventually was. I however, spent the night lacking one of the necessary comforts that I had so freely given to him.

Do you recall his earlier experiment? The thousands of feathers whose falling speed he tested against various household objects? I will give you one guess as to where those feathers came from.

Sleeping without a pillow does nothing for my neck or my patience. Such is a consequence of living with Sherlock Holmes.

Although, like so many other things, it is a small consequence. Quite small indeed.


	3. The Little Things

Have you ever heard, dear reader, the axiom that it is the little things in life that mean the most? I have learned that lesson better than the average man I'd wager, having spent half my life in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

At the very start of our relationship I found myself making large gestures in the hopes of impressing him. Looking back on this behavior I am hardly surprised. Holmes is a man of distinguished character; one gazes upon him and simultaneously sees a scientific genius, an artist, a detective, a gentleman, and an athlete capable of holding his own in any barroom brawl. It is no surprise then, that my younger self – downtrodden and physically crippled from the war – may have been… intimidated? It is not the exact word I'm looking for but yes, I admit to being intimidated by Holmes when we first met. I suppose, to put it bluntly, I measured us both and found myself to be somewhat lacking. When he proposed rooming together I swore – at least subconsciously – to do everything I could to make myself worthy of his association.

Why I wished to impress an eccentric, slightly rude man whom I had only just met… well, that is a question more easily answered by the gods' pen than my own.

However, as I have previously mentioned, I attempted to gain his favor in our early days by making large gestures. When we first moved our things into 221B Baker Street I was making these concessions left and right. Upon arrival I noted the sheer number of material objects he'd collected throughout his life and compared them to my own, paltry belongings. Before he could voice the desire that I knew was there (if I may boast: from the start I was able to read him better than any other, save perhaps the elder Mr. Holmes) I myself suggested that he make use of more than his half of the sitting room, so as to accommodate his papers and chemistry tools. The only thing I did not willingly give up were the bookshelves but, fortunately, Holmes didn't seem too interested in those anyway. Indeed, most of his literature found its way onto our floor and under the couch.

Thus it continued. Holmes explained his profession – something that fascinated me from the very start – and I graciously gave him whatever he needed to pursue it. I allowed him to take the bedroom on the second floor so that he might hear when a client came knocking, despite the fact that I was in no shape to be climbing an extra flight of stairs. (Between you and me reader, this was also the first (and one of the only) times that I lied to Holmes; telling him that I had better sleep farther away so as not to wake him and Mrs. Hudson with my nightmares. It was a truth, but not the truth for that particular situation and I shall always be grateful for the deliberate indifference with which Holmes treated the situation. It is not easy for a man bearing my pride to admit to such nightly terrors.) In the same vein I agreed to vacate the sitting room whenever a client came by. Of course, this arrangement didn't last long – soon the clients were asking which of us was the detective! – but at the time I thought it a major adjustment; to forgo my own living space day in and day out so that he may better his professor, especially when I, still recovering, spent a great deal of my time indoors.

Everything, from the large to the small I gave him. The menu and times of our meals were re-arranged with Mrs. Hudson (god bless her soul) to better fit with his eccentric habits, the bull pup I had bought in a fit of desire for companionship was sadly given away to an acquaintance, despite my longing for fresh air the window was hardly opened for fear that a gust would destroy some crucial experiment… you understand what I am attempting to convey. I made these concessions over and over again, naturally and without regret, only hoping that they would showcase the admiration I had for my new friend.

However… well, no doubt you are already aware that Holmes is not a demonstrative man. He will certainly toss out the occasional expression of gratitude – "many thanks old man!" – but he is generally not given to displays of affection. Thus, in those early days I had no idea what sort of effect my willful adjustments were having on him – if they did anything at all. I resigned myself to being satisfied with my own (and often Mrs. Hudson's) recognition of my longsuffering allowances.

And yet, only three months into our acquaintance, I was given a bit of the acknowledgement I sought. Knowing what I now know of Holmes, I am no longer surprised that it came in a most unexpected manner.

It may (or perhaps may not) surprise you to learn that even after four months of living in the same space Holmes and I had yet to share a meal together. Our schedules had simply not aligned. The war and my subsequent illness had left my body craving a great deal of nourishment and thus I found myself indulging in Mrs. Hudson's excellent scones quite early in the mornings; far too early for Holmes to be up. I would then often lunch out, forcing myself to exercise my leg and begin re-establishing my old network of friends and companions. Dinner once again found me at our cozy table but Holmes was always absent. I realized only later that he was using the cover of darkness to trail those whom he wished to follow and to practice his seedier disguises. He would eat when he returned – long after I had departed for Morpheus's abode – if, that is, he ate at all.

So you can imagine my surprise and delight when I entered our sitting room early one morning to find Holmes puttering about the fireplace.

"Why, good morning Holmes!" I greeted him rather cheerfully and realized only a moment later that his mood may not be as jolly as my own. The head that nodded in my direction was weighted and there were purpling bags under his eyes. I do swear to you reader, it looked a bit as if a corpse had wandered into our rooms. Here was a man who had clearly gotten very little sleep. I mentioned as much to him.

"I did not sleep at all, Doctor." He responded, waving a hand at my dismayed expression. "No, no, do not fret. It is a common occurrence. It is possible to train the body to run on far less sleep than those idiotic physicians would suggest we – ah." He cast an apologetic look in my direction. "That is, some physicians who may be idiotic – not that all are of course."

I chuckled, shrugging off the unintended insult. I was glad to see that his lack of sleep had not been truly detrimental to his mood. "Well," I said, "you do seem alert, I will give you that. May I inquire as to what you were doing all night that kept you from your bed?"

"A case, my dear fellow, one that required little brains but quite a bit of legwork." From the inside pocket of his coat he pulled out a rumpled and stained letter. He waved it triumphantly before my eyes. "This bit of paper was frustratingly elusive but I give you my word Doctor, now that it is in my hands a powerful member of our royal army will be cleared of some abhorrent accusations. Elusive, yes, but worth it!"

I clapped my hands in praise. "Wonderful Holmes! I admit it does my heart good to know that you are looking out for my old comrades. Although, I suspect you would loose many nights sleep on behalf of the lowest laborer as well as the powerful elite."

"My blushes, sir!" But he was smiling. With a somewhat dramatic flourish he took up a short knife and fixed the letter to our mantelpiece. It vibrated there a moment, the wood ringing.

"Holmes…?"

"Yes?"

"It is hardly my place but… should you be damaging important correspondence in such a manner? It seems cruel to so viciously slice the defenseless paper…"

"Bah! Spare me your sentiment and poetic words. Go eat your scones man!"

Laughing, I did just that, settling into the chair nearest the window. It was my usual spot, one that I had chosen because it never failed to place the sun at my back. It was strong as ever now, warming my shoulders as I poured a cup of tea.

"Will you be joining me Holmes?"

"Hmm?" His attention was still fixed on the mantelpiece, inspecting some bit of grime that had wormed its way into the woodwork.

"I would very much enjoy it if you would. I do not believe we have eaten together since first moving in."

"Ah. A pity that. Yes, I do believe I could do with a spot of-" He turned and stopped, looking somewhat startled.

"Holmes?"

"What? – Ah! Nothing, it's nothing. Well, that is, if I may inquire…"

"But of course."

He cocked his head questioningly. "Do you always sit there?"

"Oh," I looked down at my seat, half expecting to find some strange and remarkable change to have taken place without my knowledge. Something that would explain why I would not wish to sit there. "Yes. I mean, it has become a habit of mine these past few weeks." I smiled. "I quite enjoy the sun."

"Ah." He said again, fidgeting slightly.

"Did you wish to-?"

"No, no, that's quite alright-"

"It really is no bother-" I was already standing from the chair, gesturing to it with open arms. "Truly Holmes, I have no preference on something as insignificant as seating at breakfast."

The look he gave me was truly fascinating, as it seemed to say that such a preference was far from insignificant and that I should care about such things. Deeply. But all he said was, "Then, I thank you."

With a gallant bow I left him to his window seat and settled myself across the table. Holmes, for his part, made himself comfortable, now looking far more at ease. For the next ten minutes or so the only conversation was between our scones and the knives that buttered them. However, I have always been a man who defines himself by his curiosity. I became a doctor because I was curious about human aliments and wished to see if I could contribute in some small way towards eradicating it. I write because I am curious as to how we might transfer memories – both real and imagined – onto the page. And, of course, I have always been curious about my friend Sherlock Holmes. So you can imagine that ten minutes was my absolute limit. After that, I had questions of my own.

"Holmes?"

"Yeeees?" He was balancing his spoon atop his saucer, attempting to prove heaven only knows what.

"May I inquire as to why you were so insistent upon having that seat?"

He looked up, mild surprise flitting across his features. "Was I insistent?"

"Oh no no, that is not what I meant. Rather, I was only curious as to why you were eager to sit there."

He shrugged, a lazy movement. He'd removed his spoon from the saucer and was twirling it nimbly between his fingers. I watched the deft display, impressed not only by his agility but also by how little concentration was required of him to complete the trick. I do not even believe he realized he was doing it.

"I-" My eyes snapped back to him as he began to speak. "merely have my own set of rules. I follow them without compromise."

"Rules?"

"Oh yes." The spoon was tapped against each long finger as he counted them off. "I do not drink while on a case – can you imagine the potential damage were I to become inebriated? – nor do I eat – it slows one down. Despite my many vices I do attempt to take care of my body. I practice my boxing at least once a week and my fencing once a month. I never go anywhere without a weapon," he pointed the spoon towards the stairs where I knew, at the bottom, was his weighted walking stick "and I am careful to never turn my back on anyone I deem suspicious. Likewise, I never sit with my back to a door." He spread his arms wide in a gesture that, supposedly, encompassed the explanation.

"Doors?" I parroted dumbly.

"Yes my dear Doctor, doors. They are dangerous objects. Turn your back on one and any scoundrel could waltz through, catching you unawares! It is always best to have an exit – all, if possible – in sight." He pointed to the open door at my back.

I recall gazing at him with a deliberately medical eye, wondering if I had been living with a paranoid.

"But Holmes, we are in our own home!" I exclaimed. "Surely you are not expecting Mrs. Hudson to attack you while you breakfast!"

"She is rather sinister with that cleaver…"

"Holmes."

"And I thought I observed her sprinkling something into your soup the other day…"

"Holmes!"

He leaned forward eagerly, "Tell me Doctor, have you been experiencing any strange symptoms lately?"

"No." I said, deadpan. "You?"

"No."

"She was probably sprinkling herbs then. Imagine that."

"Hmm, yes. A pity." He sat back with a grin.

Shaking my head at his antics - who would have guessed this brilliant man would have such a mischievous streak? - I began making headway on those scones. It was only when we had both finished and resolutely put down our napkins that I spoke again.

"So this is merely a habit then?" I inquired. "You do not really expect to be attacked here in our rooms."

The laziness that had clouded his eyes dissipated and I was suddenly pinned as affectively as that poor bird he'd dissected earlier in the week (one of my greater allowances: not knocking this foolish man's head in for contaminating our dining area. Clearly he is in need of a physician to explain to him the dangers of mixing putrid flesh with that flesh we wish to consume.) I could feel my neck heating slightly at his scrutiny, an unfortunate reaction that can occur when one gives me just a bit too much attention...

"Holmes?" I prompted.

"Do you really think this a habit?" he murmured, more to himself than me. "Yes, yes I suppose you might. Although, perhaps it is less a matter of ignorance... perhaps it is a problem of perception... Doctor," his attention snapped back to me. "You kept a gun on you during your service, is that not correct?"

My back tensed at his mention of the war, for my memories were still horrifyingly bright and loud, but I answered him with what I hoped was convincing humor.

"Now really!" I chuckled, though is sounded more like a cough. "What kind of question is that, Holmes? We were fighting, were we not? Of course I carried a gun!"

He shook his head. "You misunderstand me. I am asking if you carried a gun at all times, Doctor."

"Of course."

"On the battle field?"

"What a ridiculous-"

"And during meals? Was one near you while you ate?"

"Yes, one never knew when-"

"What about when you bathed? While you were at leisure?" He paused. "While you slept? Doctor, did you keep your pistol underneath your pillow, despite how terribly uncomfortable that would have been? Despite how much you would have longed for the simple pleasure of having somewhere comfortable to rest your head?"

"... Yes." I whispered.

"Was there ever a time - even once! - when you relinquished your weapon?"

"No."

"And now, Doctor? Do you still sleep with it under your pillow?"

I jerked, a whole body twitch of surprise and embarrassment. Holmes seemed not to notice it though, he merely nodded and began pointing at me in his offhand manner.

"There are signs," he said. "That mark there on your cheek - no, no, do not fret. It is hardly noticeable to anyone other than myself - and there is also the way in which you hold your neck. Subtle, yes, but indicative of someone who has not been sleeping on Mrs. Hudson's lovely feather-filled pillows. Now tell me, Doctor, why do you do this? Hm?"

I rubbed my cheek absently. "I am not sure-"

"Oh I think you are." He leaned forward, his gaze intense but, I was surprised to see, not judgmental. "Why the caution, Doctor? Surely you don't expect to be attacked in your own home!" He smiled.

I, in turn, sighed. "I suppose it has become... a habit."

"Indeed. And one for which I praise you. Do you understand now? A habit is sometimes more than just a habit. Your gun was a tool, required for the life you once led, and sleeping with it likewise became a necessity. Now that your life is a safe one and that same action has become - may I say it without offense? - paranoid, that does not change the fact that you still view this habit as necessary. It's just that the rest of the world does not." He shrugged, reaching to reclaim his pipe. "Me? I have never left that dangerous world and I doubt I ever shall. My war, my battle field is right here in the heart of this city." He spread his arms wide, encompassing all that surrounded us. "And these little habits of mine? They are my guns: seemingly foolish to many but quite necessary to me. Do you understand?"

I believe I did and, furthermore, I greatly appreciated the way in which he asked this question. There was no condemnation in his tone, merely the objective curiosity of a teacher waiting for understanding to dawn on his pupil. Actually, in thinking back on this moment, I believe there was even more to it than that. Perhaps the teacher wasn't quite so objective. Perhaps, he greatly desired his pupil's understanding, nearly as much as the pupil wished to understand.

"Yes." I said, simply. "I believe I can see the importance of your 'guns' - even if others cannot. My own habit however... well, that is one I would not terribly mind being able to break."

"This much." He held out his thumb and pointer an inch from one another. "Each night. Use that stubborn nature of yours - oh yes! I've seen it! Don't think you can hide that from me Doctor! - and force yourself to move that pistol a little farther away each time you lay down your head. Out from under the pillow, off the bed, into the bedside drawer. I think that a good place for it, don't you?"

"Oh yes!" I smiled, suddenly happier than I had ever expected to be so soon after my discharge. This man - this crazy, eccentric, somewhat terrifying man - would be very good for me. Quite good indeed.

"And you," I continued, "will take that chair!"

He blinked. "Doctor?"

"Yes, that will be your spot. I will find another place to feel the sun on my back. From now on, within these rooms, you will always sit facing the door!"

"I see… Thank you, Doctor." He would not meet my eye, looking a bit bemused, if I should put a name to his expression. Bemused and... surprised?

"That is... Well, it is very kind of you, Doctor. I thank you. Truly."

"Oh, think nothing of it, Holmes."

He gazed at me somewhat hesitantly. "Are you quite sure you don't mind?"

All at once my laugh bubbled up and spilled into the air. Out of everything I had already given up for this man, he was so very concerned about me relinquishing a seat! How odd he was. How odd and how wonderful.

"No Holmes," I said. "I do not mind. It would, in fact, be my honor."


	4. 17 New Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Watson purchases a house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Haven’t written anything for “Scribbles” in forever and a day. Thought it was about time I fixed that (watching the 2002 BBC adaptation of The Hound of the Baskervilles helped kick-start the Holmes muse. Seriously, stop whatever you’re doing and go watch it because Ian Hart is a wonderfully BAMF Watson. Highly entertaining. Gooooo watch. You deserve it! :)

My most faithful and long-suffering of readers, 

Would it be impertinent of me if I claimed your acquaintance after so many years? I do hope not. Certainly through the circulation of these writings you know far more of me—my thoughts, my recollections, my trails and my triumphs—than I know of you, and yet I am optimistic that we may surmount this admittedly vast disparity. Surely then, the work in this relationship lies with me and I am willing to reawaken an ex-soldier’s instinct to fight. I do not know your name, nor your face, nor even if you sneer or smile at these words. Frankly, I do not care. I am now too old to bypass happiness when it comes my way and I find happiness in considering you a friend. 

“Why so maudlin, Dr. Watson?” you may ask. “Why all this talk of friendship?” In short, dear reader, it is because I bought a house. I bought a house with great enthusiasm but very little consideration. 

And it is friendship’s fault. 

Have I ever told you of Dr. Ryan Summerset? A boisterous yet gentle man, the depth of his kindness is perhaps only exceeded by the size of his waist. He had completed his studies at Bart’s right as I was beginning mine so we had little contact in our youth, but he never strayed far from his beloved London and when I moved into 221b I had the good fortune of encountering him once again. Since then we have met many times, as men of similar tastes are wont to do, though always in shops far from Baker Street. For you see, Summerset is a specialist in sexual maladies—particularly of the psychological variety—and I wished to keep his progressive views as far from Holmes’s cynicism as possible. It really is best for all parties involved. 

So it was that last week Holmes was engaging in his bi-monthly practice: traipsing the streets with eyes closed and a cane in hand to, as he puts it, “familiarize myself with London’s ever changing landscape. Sight, dear Watson, is a sense that I am privileged to have, but it is not one I wish to rely on entirely. Broaden your methods of observation!” 

Off he went and as I had no desire to spend my day imagining Holmes mistakenly walking in front of a cab I sent a telegram to Summerset on the off chance that he could meet for lunch. Surprisingly he could and at half past the hour I rang round his club. 

Summerset was just as jolly as when we’d last met, though perhaps a bit larger. 

“Watson, Watson!” he cried, voice echoing up the high ceilings. “You cannot imagine how delighted I was to hear from you. Excellent timing, my man. If you hadn’t written then I would even now be dining with my niece.” 

“I hope I haven’t kept you from a family engagement,” I said, allowing my coat to be taken. The wind had turned the day bitter and I attempted to recall whether Holmes had dressed properly for his excursion. I could not, and therefore pushed the worry to the back of my mind. As well as I was able to, that is. 

“On the contrary, Watson.” He guided me to a table. “I must thank you for allowing me to dodge this particular reunion. Can’t say I’m terribly fond of my niece. Dreadful child.” All this was said with an enormous grin and cheeks warming red from the fire. 

“Well then, it seems there is little for me to do but to accept your gratitude.” I said with a smile.

We settled ourselves with many a sigh, the most mournful coming from my friend’s chair. Despite the enjoyment of seeing one another again little was said until we had obtained and made decent headway into our lunch. The hearty soup of my choosing did much to warm the blood and once again I found myself thinking of Holmes out in the cold, no doubt far from anything halfway as satisfying. I scowled, I shook my head, I scowled again. It can be quite the frustration, always having someone occupying your thoughts, especially when you have present company that you wish to focus on. Summerset’s profession gave him an eye for strong emotion so it did not surprise me when he set down his spoon and turned a knowing look my way. 

“Come now, Watson,” he said. “We have food and drink, our health and—I hope—our happiness. Both of us are men who have seen far too much of this world, yet I like to think that we’ve come through with our dignity intact.” I raised my glass to that pronouncement. “What then do you have to sigh over? Patients raising your hackles?” 

“Oh, one could say that,” I murmured. Rolling my eyes to the heavens I reached to give Summerset’s arm a companionable squeeze. “I do apologize for my appalling manners. Truly, especially considering that it was I who invited you to dine. It’s Holmes.” 

“Ah! London’s logician and the world’s only consulting detective. What is appalling, Watson, is that I have been in close proximity to such genius for nigh two decades and you have not once introduced us.” Summerset’s words were tempered with a wink though. He knew as well as I that such a meeting would be explosive. Entertaining perhaps, but not worth the fallout. Suddenly though, my friend’s face drew down with a gravity I had rarely seen. “Don’t tell me he’s again taken up…” Summerset trailed off, eyes flitting significantly to his left arm. 

“No, no,” I reassured. “I have had great success in… waning him of that.” Indeed, the tale that I came to term “The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot” went a long way towards assisting me in this endeavor. I will admit freely, dear reader, that the stories you receive are often heavily edited and this one was no exception. All I can truly say is that witnessing others under the thrall of a powerful hallucinogenic had more of an impact on Holmes than all my years of medical lecturing. Though I like to think that my patience still played its role. Holmes at least appears to abstain now more for my peace of mind than any concern for his own body. 

I told Summerset as much, in words appropriate for the venue of course. He nodded, and that familiar smile came creeping back. 

“Glad to hear it, Watson. Very glad.” 

“Indeed. It has been a… pleasant change.” Waving my hand I recalled the original inquiry. “But that is not what you wished to know. Really, my worries now are miniscule in comparison. Holmes sometimes takes to walking the streets as a blind man”—I was interrupted by Summerset’s snort—“and today is simply one of those days. I find that my mind becomes preoccupied when he is out in such a… condition.” 

“And no wonder.” Both our gazes strayed to the large window beside us where the wind continued to howl. The clouds gathering in the distance spoke clearly of rain and I winced. 

“He will come back sick,” I prophesized, shaking my head. “You may count upon it. Mrs. Hudson will be beside herself and I shall be in charge of not only soothing her nerves but also taking care of the world’s worst patient!” 

“You sound quite bitter, my friend.” Summerset said. I winced again, conscious that, indeed, my voice had been raised in agitation. I moved to apologize, but he only smiled kindly my way. 

“You are a saint among men, Watson,” he said and I will admit freely that I blushed like a school girl. “You need not explain it to me. It’s clear that your anger comes from a place of great concern and really, anyone would rave at living with the great Sherlock Holmes. Few, however, would do so out of concern for him, rather than their own grievances.” My blush deepened. “Have you considered perhaps… simply telling him? That these actions of his do little for your own nerves?” 

“And make me a hypocrite?” I laughed softly. “Indeed, Summerset, more often than not I am by his side during such insanity! But yes, to answer your question I have indeed told him. More than once. Such admittances result in one of two scenarios:” Playfully, I held up two fingers, wagging them exaggeratedly. “Either I am given a thorough lecture on the absolute necessity this action has on the continued training of a consulting detective. Quite, quite, important, I assure you.” Summerset hid a laugh behind his napkin. “Or, in his rare moments, Holmes provides reassurances of his own. He informs me that there will be no more need for such adventuresome experiments once he retires.” 

“Retires!” Summerset threw his napkin to the table, a comical look of surprise upon his face. “Why, I hardly believe it. Sherlock Holmes considering retirement? Never! London would fall.” 

“Oh, I hardly believe it myself sometimes, especially on days such as today. Though I assure you, he’s been considering it quite seriously.” More sedately I set my own napkin down, face pensive. “In fact, he has been speaking of it far more frequently lately and his words hold a gravitas I have not heard before. Holmes has always maintained that he is a brain, Summerset, a great brain and everything else is mere transport, but even he cannot deny that it becomes harder to chase down a criminal half our age, or disarm one with a firmer right hook than the ones we currently possess. We are not the young men we once were and he is no good to the public dead.” I sighed, looking again to the outside world. A steady drizzle had begun to fall. “And yet, he still insists upon these… exercises.” 

“Perhaps some encouragement then. Support.” Summerset said. “It can be difficult to give up what one has become so accustomed to. Holmes may need a… nudge.” 

“He wants to raise bees,” I said dryly. “What? Do you expect me to purchase him a hive?” 

To my surprise though Summerset’s face lit up. He smacked our table with a meaty palm, causing numerous other diners to judge us severely. 

“I don’t know about hives, Watson.” He whispered, in deference to the glares we were receiving. “But one doesn’t go about keeping bees in London!”

“Certainly not.” I was thoroughly confused as to what my friend was getting at though he, at least, seemed pleased. 

“Donald Rutgers,” he said, with the tone of a judge pronouncing his sentence. “He’s a patient of mine, Watson,” and at my appalled look Summerset backpedaled. “No, no, dear boy, I don’t intent to spill secrets. I am a doctor of what many fools consider to be a highly questionable specialty, though my ethics as a doctor are unquestionable.” I quelled under his rather sever look. “No, this is entirely outside of our doctor, patient relationship. Rutgers approached me last week purely in the name of business. You see, he has a small cottage in the Sussex Downs, inherited from his father, and he is eager to sell it off. Nothing wrong with the place you understand, there are simply many reasons why a young man would wish to quickly and quietly come into a bit of money.” I nodded, though I could not help but wonder if the desire for more funds didn’t relate to his reasons for seeing Summerset. My friend raised a brow at the heat rising in my cheeks, but continued regardless. “It’s really as simple as that, Watson. Rutgers had hoped that, given my contacts, I could spread the word. Perhaps speed up a potential purchase. He’s beyond ready to have the house out of his hands.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said carefully. “Though I fail to see what it has to do with Holmes and me.” 

“Watson.” Summerset leaned forward, brazenly gripping my hands. “Wouldn’t the Sussex Downs be a marvelous place to raise bees?” 

***

Reader, I do not know what came over me. 

The only defense I can scrounge up is… what? I truly don’t know. Senility? Foolishness? The fossilized remnants of my youth? Perhaps it was simply that ever pervasive desire to surprise Holmes. As I’ve said. I do not know. All I do know is that I met Summerset for lunch and I returned to Baker Street some nine hours later, carrying with me a deed. 

You can guess, observant as you are, what the deed was to. 

Honestly, the ease with which I purchased the cottage is perhaps the most surprising part of this whole affair. Summerset, upon taking my shocked silence for consent, sent word to one Mr. Rutgers who—through coincidence or fate I cannot say—was less than two miles off, partaking of his own lunch. Before I knew my left from my right we had hailed a cab, driven the short distance through rising winds, and before long were situated in a rather homey office, complete with my toes warming by a new fire and a brandy situated within my grip. It was a rather informal gathering all in all, considering the peculiar circumstances. 

Rutgers himself proved to be a sturdy young man rising in the practice of law, surely not someone who appeared to be meeting with a doctor of Summerset’s specialty, though that is neither here nor there. Rutgers did not announce his relationship to my friend so nor would I, most assuredly. Rather, Rutgers was a man who I could see, as was quite obvious by his tenderness for city life, had little use for a dwelling out in the hills. He was also quite obviously excited to have found a potential buyer, though I certainly never presented myself as such. Dear Summerset did all the talking and as I attempted to wrap my head around it all—slow as always, Watson, as Holmes would say—I was given a description of the residence, courtesy of Rutger’s enthusiasm and, if I may be a judge, eye for detail. 

I’ll admit, I found myself picturing the cottage and all its inherent charms. 

Small, though not so small as to be suffocating, it contained three bedrooms, a kitchen, and the sitting room (just enough, I thought, for two men and a Mrs. Hudson). The structure was old but unyielding, its style simple but serviceable, the walls were a bit drafty and the roof groaned at night but truly, what country residence didn’t? I was assured, however, that the true gem of the cottage lay in its land. The surrounding hills were a painted perfection for the casual admirer, the farmer, or yes, even the beekeeper. The spread of the estate gave the impression of solitude, a calming blanket of nature, though in truth the nearest neighbors were only three miles off, perfectly situated should one desire company or, heaven forbid, require medical assistance. It was, in a word, perfect. At least, perfect for a man whose vision of retirement included swarms of insects and no doubt very loud explosions that would do well to be muffled by miles of nature. 

“What say you, Watson?” Summerset asked, his grin fierce. 

“What say I? I say you are both insane!” However my protests were scoffed at and really, I could not entirely hide my answering smile. 

“It is… promising,” I admitted. 

“Promising!” Summerset knocked me about the shoulder. “It’s far more than promising, Watson! Come now. I was under the impression that you took risks. And Rutgers isn’t asking for much, are you, my boy?” 

“Not at all, Doctor.” Though he quelled a bit under my raised brow. “Really, Doctor Watson. I swear to you, this is not a cheat. My parents passed last year in an accident,” his lips twisted briefly and I kicked myself for being an insensitive fool. “They left me quite a bit though and really, I have no need for a great deal more funds, just enough to help my start up.” He gestured around him and, though we were well accommodated I was reminded of the difficulties one faced when young, living in a city, and attempting to establish a solid career. “I only wish to be rid of it,” Rutgers insisted. “Here,” 

With that he passed me a small photograph of the cottage itself, the image a dark yellow. While the house was as quaint as he’d described it, it was really the people that held my attention. Rutgers, just a few years younger than he was now, and an older man who could only be his father. The elder Rutgers was tall and lean with a slightly crooked nose that had obviously been broken in the past. He reminded me all at once of Holmes and despite the difference in age I could suddenly see myself in Rutgers. That was all I could see then: Holmes and I standing before this dwelling in the Sussex Downs, our arms linked companionably. I found myself opening my mouth before I’d even thought it through. 

“Very well.” I said. 

Again, reader, the only explanation I can offer is no explanation at all. Surely I had taken leave of my senses. The quick discovery of such a cottage’s existence, the even quicker decision to purchase, our somewhat ludicrous hunt for another man of the law to sign over the ownership—all of it madness. The only time in my life that I have done something of equal foolishness was when I chose to move in with a man whom I knew next to nothing about and who, by his own admission, pushed the boundaries of what was acceptably eccentric for a middle aged bachelor. 

I could only hope that this new, foolish decision proved as favorable as the last. 

***

I arrived back at 221b long past dark and I found its residents exactly as I had expected. Mrs. Hudson was in a flurry of excitement the moment I walked through the door. Her voice held nothing but concern, worrying over the state she’d found Holmes in—“Drenched to the bone, Dr. Watson! One would expect to find seaweed hidden in his hair!”—even as she removed my own sodden garments. I assured her, repeatedly, that all would be well, all the while hoping that my words would prove truthful. I then made my way quickly up the seventeen steps, eager to both check on Holmes for myself and discuss my latest… adventure. 

The warmth of our sitting room was a welcome surprise (too often someone left the window ajar) as was Holmes’ languid form on the chase. He appeared fine at first glance, minus the droplets still clinging to his hair and a bruise that was developing on his right forearm. I may not be a consulting detective, but I am an expert on one. The rolled sleeve of Holmes’ dressing gown informed me that he wished for his injury to be noticed, no doubt in the hopes of getting any lectures over with as quickly as possible, rather than out of a desire for medical attention. 

“Do you see, Watson?” he asked in greeting, waving his arm. “A minor injury to be sure. I fear that I missed the curb down by the Jewelers, entirely lost my footing. In a rare moment for London there was no one in front of me to—” Holmes suddenly cut himself off, no doubt because I had just come into view. I collapsed into my favorite chair and deliberately ignored his hawk-like eyes, trained unerringly on my person. 

“Well,” I said after some time had passed. I displayed a tired smile for him. “Will you not get on with it?”

Holmes immediately swung to his feet and then just as quickly dropped to his knees. Nothing but the promise of deduction could move him so quickly. Like some sort of manic shoe shiner he took my boot between his hands, twisting it here and there with my foot still inside. He extended one long finger and ran it along the sole. 

“I’m surprised there’s anything to find, given the rain,” I ventured. 

“Nonsense, Watson.” Holmes continued to pick at the underside of my boot, his eyes narrowed in concentration and—dare I presume?—contentment. I felt a sudden rush of affection for my oldest friend. 

“It is the rain in all its glory that reveals where you’ve been,” he said. Holmes gave the side of my boot a firm, wet slap. “Drenched is the word. Soaked through. These are made of sturdy, high quality leather, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“You know you’re not,” I said dryly. “You bought these for me last season.” 

Holmes went on, only a slight pull in his cheek betraying him. “It would have taken some time for them to become as wet as they are.” His fingers skittered up and then down against my ankle, feeling the dampness that had sneaked up against my skin. He nodded. “Quite a while. You left before 2:00—that much is obvious. The umbrella is still in its stand—your departure must have been earlier than 1:30 for the clouds had already begun gathering then and you are a pragmatic man, Watson. Earlier than 1:00, for if you had remained that long Mrs. Hudson would have surely prepared you a meal.” Holmes’ nose lifted into the air, sniffing around the smell of rain and tobacco smoke. “No. The oven has not been lit today. What then could tempt you out before your second meal, and on such a day no less? Companionship, surely. The only acquaintance you have who would meet under such short notice and who is close enough to reach before lunch is Summerset. All of this is excluding, of course, his distinctive cologne which even now clings to your jacket. Really, Watson.” Holmes tugged at my sleeve with some disgust. “You smell as if you have met with some clandestine lover.” 

I put such an image from my mind, choosing instead to chuckle at the familiar, hurried deductions. 

“Right on all accounts, Holmes. What else?” 

For me to encourage such a scrutiny of my person was rare indeed. Holmes’ eyes narrowed in thought. 

“We may return to your boots,” he murmured. “As I said, dampness such as this takes time. You’ll be drying them for at least a day, dear Watson. So you dined with Summerset, but you did not immediately return here to Baker Street—I was the first to greet our long-suffering landlady this night. You must have wished to, the weather and your worry over my outing would have compelled you to remain close, the additional excursion was Summerset’s idea then.” Holmes took up my hand, staring at the space between my knuckles. “One—two different locations; offices of the legal variety, judging by the ink that stains your fingertips. You’ve been signing documents, Watson.” Here Holmes sat back on his heels, suddenly wary. “Documents that even now grace your inside pocket.” 

I nodded, pulling the folded paper from my breast. “Indeed, Holmes.” I hesitated only a moment before handing it over. “A foolish and rash decision no doubt, but it is for you, my dear man.” 

“For me?” Holmes took the document back to his chase, settling in to read with an intensity I only saw him give to letters that pertained to a case (certainly he’d never devoted such attention to my own writing). He read, re-read, his eyes finally setting on the bottom where I knew my own signature was scrawled. He looked up, some unnamed emotion tightening his eyes. 

“You bought a house,” he said. 

“Yes.” 

“In the Sussex Downs.” 

“Yes.” I watched, fascinated, as his fingers crinkled the document’s edge. All at once Holmes stood to pace. He waved my gift wildly about as if unsure of what to do with it, his arm edging dangerously towards the fire. I too sat up, beginning to recognize the signs of anger in my friend. Not the low, simmering rage that accompanied his interactions with London’s more appalling criminals, but the shaky anger that I’d come to learn covered other emotions; most prominently hurt. You may not believe, dear reader, that the man I have so often described as logic’s machine could feel so deeply, but I assure you it is true. Ever since our adventure with the Three Garridebs and that as the The Devil’s Foot Holmes has been more… expressive in his emotions. Especially now that time was making itself known and talk of retirement was increasing. With that in mind,I had expected Holmes to laugh at my purchase. Perhaps admit to some amount of irritation that I would indulge in making such a decision for both of us. I did not expect this. Not… grief. 

“Holmes?” I asked, softly. He was running his fingers through his hair. 

“This is what you want then, Watson?” 

“I… I’m unsure. Truly, Holmes, the purchase was an impulsive one.” 

To my shock he laughed. A high, shaky sound the diminished much of the room’s warmth. “Impulsive? Ah. I didn’t realize such a decision could be made so lightly. How good to know that our life together may be so easily dismantled by a mere impulse.” 

My brow furrowed. Thoroughly confused I desired to reach out, but Holmes was half way across the room, moving further away by the moment. “Holmes, I must admit that I don’t follow your logic—”

“When have you?” he cut me off, voice cold. “Your inability to follow even the simplest of reasoning is extraordinary, Watson. Let me make myself abundantly clear to you then: you have my blessing. If you wish to move out then do so. I will hardly stand in your way.” 

For a long breath I could only stare, my exhaustion and Holmes’s ludicrous misunderstanding temporarily rendering me dumb. When I did regain my voice it emerged in a laugh of my own, the exact opposite of Holmes’. Deep and joyous it wrapped around us both until Holmes scowled, his face flushed with anger and more than a little embarrassment. 

“So glad you consider this humorous, Watson,” he said, but I only continued to laugh the harder. He shrank from me further. 

“Holmes, Holmes. My dear Holmes. You have it entirely wrong.” Heaving myself to my feet I drew him by the sleeve of his dressing gown, encouraging him to sit. When he’d reluctantly settled I took the papers from him, now wrinkled quite beyond repair. 

“You claim that I am oblivious, Holmes. You are quite right of course, though in this particular instance you have allowed your emotions to override your reasoning. Tell me, what do you see here?” 

I will admit that it was with no little amount of glee that I smoothed the papers and once again held them beneath his hawk-like nose. It is so very rarely that I am able to teach Holmes anything and even rarer for his emotions to come so prominently into play. For both instances to come together simultaneously was an event not likely to occur again in my lifetime. I had to physically restrain myself from releasing another laugh. 

“Come now, Holmes!” I encouraged. He merely lifted his chin. 

“It is a deed,” he said. “Obviously.” 

“Yes. What else?” 

“Really, Watson.” He growled. “It is a deed to a house you have bought. In the Sussex Downs no less. I do not appreciate you toying so shamelessly with my—”

“You see, but you do not observe,” and by god, I thought he might strike me; the impertinence of me throwing his own words back at him during such a—what I now realized— was a vulnerable moment. Feeling truly warm for the first time since I’d come in from the rain, I decided to relent. 

“Holmes.” I said. “You are right on all accounts, as always—it was indeed I who laid down funds for this house. What you’ve failed to note, however, is that it was purchased in your name.” I tried to return the papers, but my friend’s hands now appeared to be numb. With a sigh I tossed the copies aside (no doubt they would soon be lost in the wilds of Holmes’ “system” of organization) and I seated myself on the chase beside him. We were positioned far closer to one another than we were used to, outside of the cramped hiding places we frequented during cases, but I felt that such closeness was necessary for such a conversation. Tentatively, I allowed my fingers to briefly brush against his shoulder. 

“I said it from the start. I bought it for you.” I felt that this needed repeating for Holmes had turned away, his gaze locked on the fire, resolutely avoiding my own. “A gift, Holmes. An odd one, I’ll admit,” I let out a chuckled, “though when have we ever done things as other men? You’ve been speaking of retirement recently so I found you a place to which you can retire. If you do not wish to make use of it then you need never set foot beyond the door. If you wish to head there tomorrow then I shall employ a cab. By god, if you should wish to set fire to the place as part of some experiment then know that I will be standing at your side, preferably a safe distance away, watching the blaze with amused interest.” 

That at least drew something resembling a smile. I was again humbly gratified to watch my oldest friend swallowing deeply. He needed to clear his throat some times before he spoke. 

“For me?”

“Yes. As I said.” 

“You have expended much time and money on my account, Watson,” He said. 

“Nonsense.” 

“You’re sure of that, are you?” and his eyebrow was as disbelieving as it was arched. I fear that I grew quite red beneath his scrutiny for yes, I had spent a pretty penny that day. 

“Well worth it,” I assured him.

“Then I thank you.” 

The words were simple, but the emotion behind them was anything but. I knew that Holmes was not given to lofty speeches of gratitude, nor would he willingly admit to a rush of relief. His fingers, moving to graze my shoulder in a mirror image of my earlier action, was thank you enough. Thus, I was surprised when he continued. 

“You worried me for a moment there,” he said and I startled just a bit. “It is really my own fault, to think that you would abandon me so readily. How dare I doubt my Boswell?” 

“How indeed.” I chided gently. 

“Then I put my trust in you once more. Would it not be more sensible to get both our names on the deed? For surely I won’t be moving into this cottage without you.” 

“No, you won’t.” My answer was decisive, but colored by the hope I’d harbored since I decided on my purchase. Holmes huffed at my grin. 

“Then we have work to do tomorrow. I would certainly enjoy seeing this place of ours. Do you fancy a trip, Watson?”

“I will follow wherever you wish to go.” My words were a bit too truthful, piling up atop everything else we’d felt that night. Holmes snatched his violin dismissively. 

“Then I shall make the arrangements.” 

***

So here we are. As I write this I am seated in a cab, the one I promised I’d order for Holmes, and Holmes himself is beside me, engaged in cataloguing everything that passes by our window. In the last hour he has extrapolated on his theory of crime prevailing in the countryside, he has named every variety of plant we’ve seen and noted any potential, poisonous concoctions that could be made from them. He has complained about our driver’s treatment of the horses and fantasized about the bees he will one day keep. Holmes has, to speak plainly, done everything but question me about this narrative, though there is no doubt that he knows what I am writing. I cannot help but hope that some residual gratitude, kept fresh by this trip, keeps Holmes from releasing his usual, cutting remarks. Though no doubt he will deny this when he reads this story for himself. 

Do you see now, dear reader? Friendship is indeed a potent, powerful drug. It makes one act as a fool. It certainly fooled me. I was under the impression that I was a sensible man who would never make rash, life changing decisions so frivolously, and yet friendship turned this understanding of myself on its head. Such a decision might have let me astray and yet here I sit, far happier after my impulsivity than I would ever have expected to be. 

So I return to my original question: can we not be friends? Ours is an odd relationship to be sure, but I am coming to believe that the very best relationships are. Let us be friends, dear reader. 

Who knows what may become of it.


End file.
